THE YELLOW STREAK
“Believe me, fellows,” Bill Hagin said fervently, “that cub, Elgin, is
some scrapper.”
There was a sniff of incredulity from the half dozen regulars gathered
near the plate waiting their turn. They had heard before of these
pugilistic prodigies, and were inclined to be doubtful.
“I’m from Missouri, Bill,” drawled Russell.
“Well, if you’d been up in my room last night, you’d been shown good
and proper,” Hagin retorted. “Elgin put it all over One-round Nolan in
the prettiest way you ever saw.”
At this announcement several of the men began to sit up and take
notice; for Ed Nolan, the Hornet’s crack third baseman, was also
renowned for his skill with the gloves.
“Quit your kidding, Bill,” admonished Red Pollock. “You can’t tell me
no cub put it over Ed.”
“Truest thing you know,” averred the outfielder fervently. “Ask
Monte Harris, or Dutch, if you don’t believe me. We was all talking
downstairs about the match between Kid Baker and Young Glover in
Memphis to-morrow, and Ross――he’s that punky cub fielder――says he’d
back Elgin against any amateur in his class. Nolan picks up his ears,
and, one word leading to another, we goes up to my room to call his
bluff. Take it from me, there wasn’t any bluff about the kid, though.
He’s got science and speed to burn, and the dandiest left hand wallop
you ever saw. It sent Nolan sprawling in the third round as nice as
could be, and Ed ain’t no slouch. I sure wish you all could have seen
it.”
“Why in thunder didn’t you put us wise, then?” demanded Russell
indignantly. “You’re a hot sketch, pulling off a scrap and letting
nobody in.”
A chorus of similar reproaches were hurled at Hagin from all sides,
mingled with eager queries about Elgin’s other good points, and calls
for a more detailed description of the bout.
Buck Fargo alone sat unmoved and apparently incurious, a look of
incredulity on his face. He was thinking of that night in the Palace
Theater when Elgin had slipped away, leaving Lefty to face the wrathy
mob alone. He remembered, also, the story Jack Stillman had told him
of the beating Locke had started to give his college mate three years
before at Princeton, and he smiled a wide, disbelieving smile as he
listened to Hagin’s vivid description of the cub pitcher’s prowess with
his fists.
But when, later in the day, Monte Harris and Carl Siegrist backed up
the statement, and even Nolan himself admitted sourly that “the kid
wasn’t so worse,” Fargo grew puzzled.
“Something queer about this,” he thought. “Looks like I’d have to do a
little investigating on my own hook.”
All morning he was preoccupied and thoughtful, only arousing himself
when Brennan’s eye was upon him, and even then quite lacking in his
usual joshing repartee. Once or twice he noticed with a sort of
absent approbation that Lefty was showing some steam and curves in
the work-out with other pitchers; but aside from that he paid little
attention to anything.
During dinner his abstraction continued, but afterward, on the way back
to the field, he might have been observed suddenly to slap one thigh
with his hand, and mutter something under his breath. After that he was
the old Buck Fargo again.
The daily practice game now took place in the afternoon, leaving
the morning for batting practice, throwing, running, and various
other exercises. Ogan, the captain of the cubs, put Redmond, a fairly
promising young twirler, into the box, but at the end of the second
inning withdrew him, and substituted Bert Elgin.
The latter seemed to be in fine form, and started off by fanning Cy
Russell. The second man up flied out to center field, and then Fargo
came to the bat. Elgin’s first delivery just missed the outside corner
of the plate. He then put over a straight, swift one, and Fargo,
seemingly “playing the game,” let it pass. The cub pitcher then wound
himself up for the elusive curve which was one of his pet specialties.
The ball whirled toward the pan, apparently heading straight at the
batter. Fargo took a quick step back, then lunged forward. The next
instant he dropped his bat with an exclamation of anger and pain as the
sphere struck his arm with a dull impact.
His face contorted, the big backstop trotted toward first, rubbing the
injured member, and shooting at Elgin some extremely vivid and forceful
comments out of the corner of his mouth.
The incident flustered the latter to such an extent that he whipped a
straight one over, which cut the center of the pan, and it was smashed
out by Siegrist. The next man up sacrificed Fargo home, but Elgin took
a brace; and shut out the regulars from further scoring.
The game progressed in comparative peace and harmony for two innings.
Then, strangely enough, Fargo was hit again by the second pitched ball,
and instantly the air was blue. His previous remarks were as nothing to
the words which now issued from his lips as he glared at the offending
youngster, and they only ceased when Jim Brennan ordered sharply: “Quit
that blackguarding, and take your base.”
In spite of these two unfortunate happenings, the cubs nailed the game
by a single run; for their opponents had not yet reached the point
where they were willing to exert themselves overmuch. That run was
scored in the last inning by Elgin, cleverly assisted by Ogan and Andy
Whalen; and the instant the game was over the players streaked across
the field toward the gate.
Elgin alone lingered behind to get his glove, which he had tossed over
near the bench. Oddly enough, it was nowhere to be seen. Having been
much too occupied to notice anything outside the diamond during the
past ten minutes, he had failed to see Fargo scoop up that same useful
article when returning from the pursuit of a foul, and toss it over
into the grandstand.
Thus it happened that, while Elgin was searching vainly for his
property, the field was deserted by all save himself and one other man.
The latter was Fargo, who had started out with the rest, and then,
halfway to the gate, paused, and turned back.
He was within ten feet of the cub twirler before the latter glanced up,
giving a slight start as his eyes took in the expression of cold menace
on the big backstop’s face.
“You common mucker!” rasped the latter fiercely, his big fists clenched
as he strode rapidly forward. “If you think you can put a trick like
that over me a-purpose, you’re a bigger chump than you look.”
Elgin took a step backward, his face blanching. “I――didn’t do it on
purpose,” he stammered. “It was――”
“You lie!” snapped Fargo. “Once might have gone, but not the second
time. You’ve got a big thrashing coming, if I can give it to you. Put
up your fists, you boob!”
His eyes seemed to blaze, and Elgin, after an involuntary motion to
guard himself, dropped his arms and retreated a few steps. He was
trembling and his lips quivered.
“I tell you――I didn’t――mean――” he stammered, and then was silent.
“You’re a liar!” was the retort. “Ain’t you going to put your fists up,
or must I make you?”
There was no reply, and, with a swift forward motion, Fargo lunged and
brought his open palm against Elgin’s cheek with stinging force. The
youngster staggered back, straightened, and stood there, head hanging,
the picture of terror.
For a moment Fargo stared in silence at the marks his fingers had left
on the now crimson cheek. Then he burst into a laugh so full of scorn
and contempt that the other winced.
“A quitter!” the big backstop sneered. “A rotten quitter, that’s
what you are! You haven’t got an ounce of grit in your whole hulking
carcass. I thought there was something queer about your being such a
wonder with your fists. If you had any nerve you could have knocked me
endwise――but you haven’t. You’re yellow straight through. I let you hit
me with the ball a-purpose, so’s I could see what you were made of.
I’ve found out. Your glove’s over in the stand, where I fired it.”
Without another word, he turned and strode toward the gate, leaving
Elgin standing as if rooted to the ground. Bert’s face turned from red
to white, from white to deep, purpling crimson. He gnawed his lips
until the blood came, and his eyes were full of bitter shame at the
humiliating discovery that he had been caught in the backstop’s trap to
test his nerve.